


Unsent

by dearcst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John is engaged, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sherlock's sad about it, Texting, The Empty Hearse Spoilers, Unrequited Love, non-explicit reference to torture, orsohethinks, post The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/dearcst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John both tend to write texts without ever sending them. Somehow a message Sherlock never means to send ends up on John's phone. <br/>"If I were ever capable of emotions like deep affection, passion, or even desire, I don't think it'd go too far to tell you that you are, and the only one I will ever be, in love with."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Unsent

 

                There was the faint sound of snow pattering on the outside window not unlike shy children tapping a fish tank. Other than that, it was the choking kind of silence. Sherlock sat in his chair, curled up in himself, not daring to touch the chilling floor. Winters were difficult in the first place, and with John engaged and gone, they were insufferable. The drapes were drawn. The doors were locked. The detective wept.

                It was times like these that Sherlock let his defenses fall; when he was alone. He was quiet about it, never letting an audible sound escape. But the voices screaming in his mind scratched at his skull and took a jackhammer to the side until he was falling apart. He was thankful for these moments, for if he was ever left without them, he would be forced to show himself in front of others.

                _Caring is not an advantage._

_It is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

_Don’t get involved._

                _It’s the start of a new era._

                Sherlock took his jacket sleeve to his eye and wiped his face. He sniffled. His eyes immediately rushed around the room in search of anyone whom may have heard him, but he was still alone. For some time, Sherlock had sworn off emotions, had forced himself into stone. But times like this, he felt it… The cold hand of loneliness squeezing the breath from his lungs, the bitter tea poured over his head until he drowned in it.

                He yearned for something, (something that was so impossible, so improbable, never could, never will have). He desired it with such passion. His fingers trembled as he grabbed his mobile, shifting through his contacts for the only man that was able to tolerate him. He sniffled.

                **Lonely.**

**Come over. –SH**

His thumb hovered over the send button.

**Do you wish to send this message?**

**_[Unsent]_ **

“John, dear, you’re taking a while in there,” Mary nagged with a smile on her face from the bed.

                “Hold on,” the bathroom door shouted back, “I swear you have no patience.”

                “Not true,” Mary jested, “Do you know how long I waited last week for you to clean your things from the attic?”

                They laughed.

                John rinsed his face once more, looking over himself in the mirror. This mirror was cleaner than the one in 221B. His eyes fell to the toothbrushes.

                _“Why are there bloody fingers where the toothbrushes should be?!” John yelled through the flat._

_Sherlock’s voice was muffled through doors, but his reply was just barely audible. “Experiment!”_

_John should have expected as much. “Well where’s my toothbrush?”_

_“I spilled nitrogen dioxide on them. Had to throw them out.”_

_“How did you—!” John started giving a frustrated sigh. “Nevermind. I’m going to get a new toothbrush.”_

_“We need more milk. And get me one as well.”_

_John casted a glare to his flatmate and was returned with a smirk and eyes glued to a computer screen._

                _No_. John berated himself, _I told myself I wouldn’t think back to that place. I’m with Mary._

                John sighed, brushing his teeth. The door between him and Mary seemed so thick. Almost as if they were separated forever if he never unlocked the door. He wondered if he would be able to go back to solving crimes with Sherlock like the past. No matter how much he told himself he was in a better place here in a home with a soon-to-be-wife, he never really believed it. There was something _alive_ about being with Sherlock. As a flatemate. Not anymore. Obviously.

                John finally emerged from the bathroom, fresh and with a crisp smile. Mary held the duvet up to her chin and threw him a playful look. With heavy hands, John rolled under the covers and sighed, blinking slower than usual.

                “Are you all right?”

                John’s gaze shifted lazily to Mary. “’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

                Mary’s lips quirked.

                She scooted over, laying her head on his shoulder. “Some days you seem so far away.”

                John’s eyes flashed at her, grounding himself. “Do I?”

                Mary chuckled and nodded slowly. “Good night. I love you.”

                John stretched a plastic smile. “Love you.”

                They drifted off together; however, John couldn’t bring his mind to slow down. Soon the digital clock was blazing _2:41_ in red fire, and he was lying on his back. His breathing evened out and he found himself thinking of Sherlock. His arrogant voice. That smirk he always made when he proved someone wrong. His boisterous, childlike persona.

                John smiled.

                Before he realized what he was doing, his mobile was in his hands.

**There’s no violin to lull me to sleep.**

**Compose me something. –JW**

                John blinked at the screen through the dark room. What was he doing? That sounded so stupid.

**Do you wish to send this message?**

**_[Unsent]_ **

                “Are you going to get that?” Lestrade nodded to Sherlock’s pocket as it vibrated.

                “Unimportant,” Sherlock replied crisply. “Where’s the corpse?”

                Lestrade gave up, ducking under the police tape. There was chatter all around them, yet Sherlock zeroed in on only a few conversations. None of which were important. _Delete_.

                They were soon in a room with a body on the floor. Sherlock’s footsteps seemed to be the only sound in the area _. Tap, tap, tap._

                Widow. Second wife. Three children. Retired school teacher. Enjoys gardening. Didn’t like math in school. Child is an artist. Make that two. She hates coffee but drinks it anyways. _Unimportant_.  Untrustworthy. Gambler.

                Too easy.

                “Well obviously the woman had a problem with a gambling debt,” Sherlock cut the thick atmosphere with his voice as a knife. He heard Lestrade mutter something like “obvious to _you_ ,” but ignored it. He took a paper from her side pocket.  “And here’s the place she gambles most at. Number on the back of the indebted.”

                Sherlock’s pocket buzzed again just as he made his way out the door.

                “Sherlock, that’s the sixth time since I’ve been here with you. Answer the bloody phone,” Lestrade called after him.

                “Unimportant!” Sherlock replied in an equally as loud voice.

                He walked briskly through the crime scene, hailing a taxi as if he was late for something. He barked out his street address and the cabbie took off down the street. Sherlock opened his mobile at last.

                **Do you feel like meeting Mary and I for dinner tonight? –JW**

**Sherlock? –JW**

**I know you have your phone on you. –JW**

**Lestrade said you’re on a case. Why didn’t you tell me? –JW**

**I would have come. I don’t have work today. –JW**

**Are you hurt? –JW**

                Sherlock’s eyes scanned each text in seeming placidity. His thumbs hovered over the reply text box.

                    **Out. Unable to make the date. –SH**

                The responding text came immediately.

**Good case? –JW**

                    **Interesting enough. –SH** He typed in feigned interest. _Send_.

                **So it’s long? You won’t be able to make it tonight? Mary will be disappointed. –JW**

                    **No. –SH**

                _Send_. 

                Sherlock blinked and swallowed.

                    **I wonder how dinner would go just you and I. –SH**

**Do you wish to send this message?**

**_[Unsent]_ **

                Glasses danced together and silverware sang.  It wasn’t that fancy of a restaurant, but it wasn’t too shabby either. Mary’s face was brighter than stars as she cracked jokes like there was no tomorrow. John laughed at each one, feeling his side hurt after a while. “You’re a doctor,” Mary had said, “You should be able to treat that.” John replied with a stony glare, blaming every fault on her. She held her hands up in surrender.

                The lights were just faintly dimmed. John spooned some mashed potato in his mouth and he and Mary chatted without any real purpose. Her eyes and her heart were stars that were starting to burn out, at least in the eyes of John. There was no reason to feel a small stab of loneliness on a night like this, but for some reason he did. The rip grew larger throughout the night, and he found himself wishing Sherlock hadn’t been on any dumb case. Or maybe he could have skipped the dinner to go on the case with him.

                No, that’s absurd. Why would he leave his fiance for a friend? He stabbed a piece of chicken rather harshly.

                “Are you alright, love?” Mary asked in a smaller voice.

                John blinked, his mind coming back to the table. “Of course,” he replied like every other time she asked. He wondered why she was asking so often.

                “You seem far away,” she said ponderingly.

                John forced a laugh. “Do I? This table is a bit big.”

                John moved his chair a bit closer and Mary’s lips lifted into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. John felt his pocket vibrate and he pulled out his mobile. His chest lunged at the name.

                    **Bored. –SH**

                John bit back a smile.

                **I’m at dinner. Without you.**

**Thought you had a case? –JW**

                    **It was too easy. Took only fifteen minutes.  –SH**

                John stared at the message for a moment, narrowing his eyes.

                **Why didn’t you come to dinner then? –JW** ,he sent. He couldn’t help but feel a little hurt.

                “Texting Sherlock?” Mary asked. There was something in her eyes that John couldn’t recognize.

                “How did you know?”

                _Buzz_. **You know I don’t eat. –SH**

                **I wish you would. –JW**

                Mary didn’t answer, but John felt like something was off. His fingers started typing a new message without him even looking at the screen. It just spilled from his hands.

                **It would taste better with you here. –JW**

**Do you wish to send this message?**

                “Check, please,” Mary told their waiter.

**_[Unsent]_ **

               

                Sherlock felt himself slipping.

                He shut his eyes tightly, leaning back into his bed, wishing to sink down into the sheets and disappear. He let out a shout just to get out some voice that was aching to be heard. Mrs. Hudson knew better than to ask what the noise was anyways. He tossed over onto his stomach, his curls running away from him and flying to the corners of the room if only they could reach. He groaned into his pillow. He wanted to scream. It just happened some days. Talking normally helped, but John was gone.

                _John_.

                Sherlock could hardly take it anymore. The aching in his chest wouldn’t go away and he had no idea what it was. Just that it _hurt_ to be around John, especially when he was with Mary, which was strange since he thought he didn’t dislike Mary.

                The cold was comforting. Sherlock felt the urge to open the window and let some of the brisk, snow-filled air in. He did.

                Sherlock shivered, curling in on himself but he did not want to close the window. It kept his mind of things. He never wanted to smoke more now than any other time in his life, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to find them if he tried.

                He tapped the screen of his mobile, just gazing at the screen through the relative darkness of the moonlight. His fingers moved on their own.

                     **I miss you.**

 **Could I convince you to come back—** he nearly typed _home_. 221B was not John’s home. – **Over?**

 **I’m also a bit lonely. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately. I don’t like feelings. How ever do you cope? I doubt I’ll actually send this. I’ve been typing a lot of things I never send to you, John. It makes me feel like I’m talking to you. Is that strange?** He laughed to himself. **How silly. Of course I’m strange. You never seemed to mind my strangeness, John. I’ve always loved that about you; your ability to look past faults, and I know I have a lot of faults. You’re the only person that’s ever liked me, you know. You’re the only person I’ve ever liked, all the same. You’re so kind, yet you don’t let others step all over you.**

**I’ve never been one for physical contact, but I constantly find myself wishing I could hold you. Or your hand at least. Or touch your hair. It hurts a lot, you know, to be so close, and then see you walk away and kiss your fiance. I feel my stomach churn and my heart contract. What does that mean? You’re better at emotions than I am.**

**This is all that’s keeping me sane now. Just typing messages that will never be sent. I wonder how you would react to these messages. I really do.**

**I’ve never said these things: Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry. It hurts when people say I’m a freak or a psychopath. I do feel pain. I do feel attraction. Before I came “back from the dead,” I went through months of torture in Serbia. When I came back, I did expect you to hit me, and of course I deserved it. However, you should know that one of those hits almost ripped out some of my stitches. Actually, no, you shouldn’t know. Like I said, I deserved it. I can be selfish can’t I? Arrogant? I bet you hate that about me. I bet you hate a lot of things about me. Would it shock you if I said I did, too?**

**There. I’ve said it. In a way.**

**Oh. One more thing I’ve never said.**

**If I were ever capable of emotions like deep affection, passion, or even desire, I don’t think it’d go too far to tell you that you are, and the only one I will ever be in love with.**

Sherlock set his phone down, already feeling his cheeks dampen. Damn his emotions. He would learn to delete them some day. He felt fatigue pulling him in, and he fell into his pillow, sure to be asleep for at least fifteen hours.

                The door opened with a loud crack similar to thunder.

                “Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted, “I’ve been texting you for the last fifteen minutes!”

                He received no answer.

                The flat felt eerily quiet as Lestrade walked in slowly. He expected something to blow up or for Sherlock to dash out with an experiment on fire. Or yell at him to get out.

                Lestrade found himself stepping into Sherlock’s bedroom. He’d never really seen it except for glimpses. He was surprised to find Sherlock actually _asleep_. It was about bloody time, too. He hadn’t slept for how long? Lestrade couldn’t even guess.

                He was drawn to the only light in the room, his mobile still illuminating a small corner of the room, leaving an angelic shadow over Sherlock’s face. He peered over at it.

**Do you wish to send this message?**

                Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Did Sherlock fall asleep before hitting send? He shrugged, his forefinger hovering over the send button.

**_[Sent]_ **


	2. Chapter 2

                John rolled over in his bed, unable to sleep. The blankets clawed at his skin, making it impossible for him to sleep. He vaguely wondered if Mary felt so uncomfortable, but she was sound asleep. It was as if the universe was against him and sleeping. He huffed, turning his head again. The only light in the bedroom was from the moon through the window and the red numbers _1:21 AM_ from the digital clock.

                _Buzz_. 

                John turned over groggily, fully prepared to slaughter the next thing that tried to prevent him from sleeping, but his mobile shined that one name he would never try to push away. Sherlock? He knew Sherlock never slept, but to try to take _his_ sleep away was just mean. Whatever case this was could wait seven damn hours.

                He blindly grabbed for the device, glaring at the screen that was brighter than the sun at the moment. When his vision finally cleared, he was able to open the text, anticipating _“Double murder at west Charleston road. Your assistance is required. –SH.”_

                **I miss you,** was what he first saw, starting to wake up fully. He blinked, sitting up, seeing the paragraphs set after that. What was this? His eyes dropped over the message, feeling his mouth go dry.

**Could I convince you to come back over?**

**I’m also a bit lonely. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately. I don’t like feelings. How ever do you cope? I doubt I’ll actually send this. I’ve been typing a lot of things I never send to you, John.** John’slips twitched nearly into a smile. _I have too_ , he wanted to whisper.

**It makes me feel like I’m talking to you. Is that strange? How silly. Of course I’m strange. You never seemed to mind my strangeness, John. I’ve always loved that about you; your ability to look past faults, and I know I have a lot of faults. You’re the only person that’s ever liked me, you know. You’re the only person I’ve ever liked, all the same. You’re so kind, yet you don’t let others step all over you.**

John couldn’t formulate any thoughts whatsoever. This was Sherlock, right? Was this was prank? The text seemed to be an excerpt from a romance novel, and he would have believed it was had it not been for the integrations of his own name. He’d always seen Sherlock as having no emotions and incapable of any kind of emotion. This message… He just didn’t understand a word of it.

 **I’ve never been one for physical contact, but I constantly find myself wishing I could hold you. Or your hand at least. Or touch your hair. It hurts a lot, you know, to be so close, and then see you walk away and kiss your fiance. I feel my stomach churn and my heart contract. What does that mean? You’re better at emotions than I am.** John subconsciously licked his lips, feeling the fantasy of Sherlock’s fingers through his hair.

 **This is all that’s keeping me sane now. Just typing messages that will never be sent. I wonder how you would react to these messages. I really do.** _Never be sent? I don’t even know how to react…_

**I’ve never said these things: Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry. It hurts when people say I’m a freak or a psychopath. I do feel pain. I do feel attraction. Before I came “back from the dead,” I went through months of torture in Serbia. When I came back, I did expect you to hit me, and of course I deserved it. However, you should know that one of those hits almost ripped out some of my stitches. Actually, no, you shouldn’t know. Like I said, I deserved it. I can be selfish can’t I? Arrogant? I bet you hate that about me. I bet you hate a lot of things about me. Would it shock you if I said I did, too?**

John swore he heard a snap of his heart, feeling guilt overwhelm him. The insults always seemed to roll right off Sherlock… Apparently not. _He perceives the world—even me—as hating at least something about him?_ John thought, biting his lip.

And in regard to his “resurrection”, John had always just thought he had been dealing with his normal types of cases, just away from London and without John. Not trusting John. He figured Sherlock was just living away for two years. But to know… He’s a doctor for Christ’s sake! He should have seen the signs of pain! John felt fury at himself wash over him, but couldn’t keep himself from reading.

**There. I’ve said it. In a way.**

**Oh. One more thing I’ve never said.**

**If I were ever capable of emotions like deep affection, passion, or even desire, I don’t think it’d go too far to tell you that you are, and the only one I will ever be in love with.**

                He didn’t even sign it. Were these truly Sherlock’s words?

                It was then John realized he couldn’t breathe. He stared dumbly at the small text on his mobile, just some pixels shoved together in a pattern. He felt his heart running a million miles on a treadmill on high. He felt on fire.

                He gasped in breath, realizing he had to breathe or he wouldn’t be able to sustain life. The things you forget in shock. His fingers fumbled with the phone, but when he got to the reply box, he realized he had no idea what to say.

                Four minutes went by.

                Seven.

                **Sherlock? –JW**

                John clutched his mobile like a lifeline and stared, hardly allowing time to blink. His pulse quickened, quickened, _quickened_. He felt like he was dancing on Saturn’s rings and he never stopped for a rest. Sherlock wasn’t answering. Why wasn’t he answering?

 **Sherlock, what are you talking about? I—** John couldn’t think of what to say. He deleted the words. **Hello? –JW** He put simply.

                Nine minutes and twelve seconds passed.

                John hit the call button, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white. The phone rang out.

                John couldn’t handle just sitting there, scrambling off the bed and throwing on clothes and shoes, running out of the flat with the mobile sewn to his palm and his wife alone on the sheets.

**Sherlock, answer your bloody phone. –JW**

**Do you wish to send this message?**

**_[Sent]_ **

               John felt a sort of nostalgia clutch him as he arrived at Baker Street. The streets were much too cold. Unable to stop himself, he ran to the door, opening it as softly as he could and rammed into something—another person?

               “L-Lestrade?” John stammered, short of breath.

               Lestrade stumbled backwards, jolting in surprise. “John? What are you doing here? It’s late, what about Mary?”

               John blinked for a moment. _Mary_. He sucked in another gulp of air.

               Lestrade shifted past John, “I’ve got to get home,” he said in a voice damp with fatigue. “You should too. Sherlock’s asleep this blue moon.”

               Confusion washed over John’s face. Hadn’t he just..? “Asleep?” he turned around. “But I… He… He texted… What?”

               “I came to see where he put the evidence from the Demonna Case—under the sofa—and he was out like a light when I got there,” Lestrade explained, chewing the words carefully. “Then… There was a text on his phone, I figured he just… Fell asleep without hitting send. What did the text say?” he found curiosity yanking on his heels now.

               Roses danced over John’s cheeks for a moment. “I-It’s not… Important…”

                Sherlock didn’t send it.

                _But they were his words._

He wasn’t supposed to read it.

                _But he did._

                He wasn’t supposed to run to Baker Street in the middle of the night.

                _But… He did._

_Why?_

                When John looked up the street was empty again. Lestrade must have left when he was lost in thought. John lifted his gaze to the windows of the flat, desire burning from the stars. He found himself stalking up the stairs, each step heavier than the next.

                The flat was so quiet. Eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that was forbidden when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. The bedroom door was left open and John almost felt as if he wasn’t supposed to be there. Like a child about to steal a cookie from the cookie jar. He crept around the corner, wondering why the flat felt so foreign now than before or if that was just Sherlock.

                Sherlock was curled in on himself, clutching the sheets to his chest rather than having them over his body. His hair was scattered over the pillow messily and John felt the strange temptation to put them back into place. His lips were parted slightly.

                For a moment he stood at the doorway, merely watching him. He didn’t feel guilty for watching him as most would, but he did however feel like a criminal. He felt like the only person on the planet who had seen Sherlock look so…

                The thought died as he could not think of a word to properly describe him.

                Sherlock’s fingers clutched tighter around the sheet and his expression was pained. Before John could stop himself he ventured farther into the room, stepping so carefully as if it were a minefield.

                “Sherlock?” he breathed softly. Of course he didn’t hear him.

                Sherlock shivered on the mattress, teeth chattering. _Bloody idiot,_ John reprimanded fondly in his head, prying the blankets from his hands and pulling it over his body. He seemed to relax nearly immediately, but his hands reached out desperately for something to hold, grabbing onto John’s shirt and pulling him onto the bed.

                John toppled over awkwardly, landing uncomfortably over Sherlock forming an X-like shape. John struggled to get up again but Sherlock held on too tightly. He settled for shifting so they were side by side.

                The flowers were at work once more and a soft red dusted over John’s cheeks. He felt warmth engulf him and suddenly it was so much easier to sleep. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his torso and he fisted his shirt. He held him close with such desire and desperation.

                John’s lips pressed to Sherlock’s temple and watched as Sherlock’s lips pinched just slightly into a soft smile. His head fell into the crook of his neck like the last piece of a puzzle. Nothing in the world had felt so right. John’s hands found their way smoothing Sherlock’s hair back, entangling themselves and falling naturally on his back.

                They were caressed and held by the angels of adoration.

~~*~~

                Sherlock woke first. 

                Everything was so different. It was winter. But it was warm. Hot even. There was something over him, thicker than his blankets. He was in bed, obviously he used to be asleep. The door was open. Why did he leave the door open? He didn’t. Someone else did. Two people, actually. Something _smelled_ different. _Like…_

                Sherlock tried to sit up but found he was immobile. It was then he realized there was something _else_ in bed with him. A _person_. With their _arms around him_. 

_Was it..?_

                The person started to stir _. It couldn’t be_.

                John mumbled incoherently, pulling away just barely. Sherlock had his _arms around this person_ that could not _possibly_ be who he thought it was. 

                “Sherlock?” came the sleepy slur.

                It was.

                “John,” Sherlock’s voice was low.

                “You really like to cuddle…” John’s voice was soft and slurred, his eyes still closed as he nuzzled closer. Sherlock leaned away.

                “ _John_ ,” he said sternly.

                Every brain cell in Sherlock’s body said to push John off of him but his body wouldn’t comply. _Why would it comply?_

                “Cute,” just the single word made Sherlock’s heartbeat spike.

                “John, _why are you here?_ Are you drunk?” was the only explanation Sherlock could come up with.

                John started to blink slowly, gradually waking up. He made a noise, trying to look over at Sherlock.

                Sherlock pushed him off, immediately fighting to urge to pull him back. He hugged his knees as substitute, sitting near the edge of the bed. The sheets pooled around their bodies.

                “Leave,” Sherlock found himself saying in a voice that hardly stood up taller than an ant.

                “Sherlock—“

                “I mean it! _Why are you here?!”_

                John felt shocked in place. He’d never seen Sherlock so… Vulnerable.

                “You texted—“ John’s mouth snapped shut. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

                Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I never texted you.”

                John didn’t answer, trying to think of something to say. He was just about to make something up when—

                “No,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes widening as he scrambled to the bedside table and snatched his phone. John felt frozen. “No,” he repeated and frantically went through his texts.

                John could see Sherlock’s chest rising erratically. “Sher—“

                “You weren’t supposed…” Sherlock’s voice wasn’t even a whisper, yet John heard it. “You weren’t… Read…”

                Sherlock looked up, and for a moment he met John’s eyes. _Fear, hurt, self-berate, love._

                Then he fled.

                Sherlock nearly fell as he ran out of the room, finding refuge in the bathroom. He locked the door. _I never sent that. I never sent that. I never SENT that_. He wasn’t surprised when he heard John outside the door.

                The door handle rattled and there were knocks.

                “Sherlock, come out of there!” John yelled through the wood frustrated.

_I’m never coming out. I can never show my face again. How will you look at me now? I am not one to be pitied._

                Sherlock slid down the door, leaning his head against it with a soft _thud_. He squeezed his eyes shut. How did this happen? How could it happen? His body flushed with anger at he didn’t know what. He clenched his fists, banging on the door once.

                John flinched. “Sherlock?” he asked gingerly. He could hear Sherlock’s ragged breathing a door away.

                “Delete it,” Sherlock whispered through the door. “Just delete it. Delete it, delete it, delete it…”

                “Sherlock, I already… Read it,” John swallowed thickly.

                “Not the phone, your _head_ ,” Sherlock seethed. “Delete it!”

                “I-I can’t!” John was shocked he even suggested such a thing.

                Sherlock banged on the door again, leaning his forehead on the wood afterwards. He felt so weak.

                John sat down by the door, too, placing a hand over the wood as if it would reach his detective.

                “Please,” John heard Sherlock choke out in a voice that broke his heart. “ _Please_ , delete it.”

                John bit his lip. “I don’t work like you! I can’t!” he said exasperated. _I wouldn’t if I could either._

                “You weren’t supposed to _read_ that!” Sherlock yelled.

                He felt so violated. Like someone pried inside his head and read all his little secrets. Everything he kept locked away from everyone, even Mycroft, was now being shared.

                Silence fell over them, yet neither felt the need to speak. John occasionally heard sniffling noises from the other side of the door and he realized with a pang to the chest that Sherlock was probably crying. He subconsciously scratched the door, missing how his hair felt.

                “Was it true?”

                Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment. “What does it matter?” his voice was tired, weighing down with venomous defeat.

                “Was it true?” John only repeated.

                “John, you’re engaged—“

                “But _was it true?”_ John asked in a desperate voice.

                Sherlock nodded from the other side of the door, knowing John couldn’t see him. He should never see him again.

                “Please let me in,” such a feeble voice.

                “No.”

                “Sh—“

                “ _Stop_ saying my name like that!” Sherlock erupted. He kept saying his name and saying his name and _saying his name._

                John was taken aback, speaking after a moment, “like what?”

                “Like you pity me,” Sherlock spat. “I don’t need your pity so _leave_.” It was quiet once more before Sherlock added, “Go back to Mary.”

                John scratched at the door again, knocking lightly.

                “Do you remember,” John started softly, “When you were on the rooftop?”

                Sherlock didn’t answer, but John knew he did.

                “You made me watch,” his voice was still tinged with anger, “You made me bloody _watch_ you kill yourself. When I was powerless. I ran to you, only to find you lifeless and covered in blood. Your fair skin even fairer and deathly. Do you know how much that fucking killed me?”

                He was returned with silence.

                “Do you _know_ how it feels to see your… the person you trust with your life… Do you know how it feels to see them die in front of you?”

                There was another pause.

                “I needed someone to replace this huge fucking hole you made in me,” John’s voices bit into Sherlock’s chest. “And I found her. I found someone to replace you.”

                Sherlock had to admit the words stung. He never expected The Fall to affect John so much. All John saw of him was intellect, and since that was apparently fake, he wouldn’t care if Sherlock died, would he? It simply didn’t make sense, but Sherlock was always terrible at emotions. He never did mean to hurt John. He would never mean to hurt John.

                “It worked,” John continued after a while. “It really did work. I started to get better. I nearly returned to normal when you decided to give me a bloody heart attack,” John took in a sharp breath, continuing in an angry voice, “I was so bloody _angry_ with you! How could you just… Do something like that then waltz into my life again with that arrogant smirk and voice and just expect me to return you with a hug and ‘I missed you, buddy’?! And what I hated more than you at the time was how much I actually loved to see you back. I hated that so much.”

                John let out a shaky breath, giving up on the door and falling against it tiredly.

                “Why do you think I was so angry?”

                Sherlock answered with silence again.

                “That isn’t going to work. Answer me,” John said sternly.

                Sherlock didn’t answer.

                “For the love of—You do these bloody deductions when people hate you for it and then when I ask you to, you choose _now_ to switch it off!”

                _“I can’t_.”

                John’s breath hitched. _That_ was probably why he wasn’t speaking, John thought as he heard Sherlock’s voice strangled with sobs.

                “ _Why d-did you have to read it?_ ”

                “Please let me in,” John said softly.

                The entire conversation seemed to take a loop.

                “If I let you in I’ll want to do things I shouldn’t.”

                “Why shouldn’t you do something? Do what?”

                “You have a fiance.”

                Silence showered over them and they leant into the door, yearning to hold the other but knowing it was forbidden.

                “Do what?” John whispered.

                He heard a shuddering breath. “Hold you,” Sherlock answered softly. “Kiss you.”

                “For tonight,” John said quietly, “Can I not be engaged?”

                “It’s morning,” Sherlock said bluntly.”  
                John glared a hole through the door but laughed. It was so _Sherlock_.

                “For this morning,” John started again, “Can I not be married?”

                “That’s illogical.”

                “Sherlock, our _whole bloody relationship_ is illogical!” John yelled.

                The door handle jiggled again.

                “Please?”

                The door cracked open.


	3. Chapter 3

                The door opened slowly, not moving hardly an inch more than it had to. John pushed the door open the rest of the way, revealing Sherlock now sitting against the wall, hugging his knees and hiding his face. Faint whispers fell over them, _closer_ , they begged, _you must be closer_. John didn’t find much need to stand, instead he crawled forwards, his lips parted, ready to speak. The words died on his lips. What was he to say?

                Sherlock was tense. He could feel John’s presence nearing him and it made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, and if that were scientifically possible, Sherlock would be sure to have found the way. He felt a hand on his wrist. _Pull him close_ , something in him beseeched. _Run away_ , another part screamed.

                “Sherlock?” John found words. “Look at me.”

                Sherlock held his knees tighter. He knew he looked pathetic. He hated himself for crying at times like these, but it was inevitable. His toes curled, his shoulders tensed, he made himself even smaller as if he could shrink through the wall.

                The hand on his own burned like the scorching sun as it held tighter. He couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad burn.

                “ _Look at me_ ,” John demanded.

                Sherlock knew he couldn’t evade John forever. He gave a shuddering breath and slowly lifted his head, forcing his eyes to John’s so not to see his own face in the mirror. He didn’t want to know how pathetic he looked, broken over something that could never be. It was illogical, and Sherlock Holmes was never illogical.

                He regretted it the moment he showed his face, but he couldn’t hide himself once John had seen. There was something in John’s eyes he didn’t quite recognize. Sherlock’s eyes wavered, lowering slowly to the tiles on the floor when he was pushed backwards.

                His eyes flashed up, shocked and searching for an answer. There was something over him— _John was over him_ — with his face mashed up to his, his lips _on his_. He tasted of tea and bitterness, smelled of evergreen cologne. His lips were chapped and rough against his own . They were _John’s_ lips.

                Sherlock’s face heated up, his arms searching for something to anchor him but finding nothing. He was too shocked to kiss back, instead just receiving as John towered over him criminally. His eyes were wide. John’s were slightly closed, his hands fisted in Sherlock’s shirt.

                “How can you look at me like that?” John said breathlessly, “How can you look at me like that and not expect me to bloody kiss you?”

                Sherlock’s body shuddered. “L-Like what?” he asked hoarsely.

                “Like I just ran over your dog with a truck,” John said bluntly, adding, “Twice.”

                Sherlock felt John’s lips moving again and he pressed back timidly, inexperienced. “I don’t have a dog,” he said dumbly.

                John’s laughter shook his body.

                Sherlock was a quick learner. He kissed back harder, yet uncertainty was still woven between them. Time was frozen in the room, and it was only he and John in the entire world, and they were content. Bliss and only bliss was coursing through their veins.

                Sherlock felt John’s hands start to unclench from his shirt. _He’s pulling away_ , he realized with a heart that sunk lower than the Titanic.

                But he did not pull away.

                His fingers fumbled with the top button of Sherlock’s shirt.

 _Oh_.

                His heart hammered louder and he opened his mouth to try to speak. John’s tongue poked in inside. _Oh my God_ , was Sherlock’s only thought. He made a small sound akin to a moan but more like a squeak. He felt John’s fingers moving faster, the last button gone.

                “John,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice building up slowly. “John, stop.”

                Sherlock’s hand pushed at the older man, but he seemed lost in a daze. He shivered from the cold morning air hitting his chest. _His chest_. The hand slid—

                “ _Stop_ , John,” he said louder, pushing him away.

                John blinked dumbly, awakening again. His pupils were blown wide, hazed with lust. He refocused again, seeing Sherlock looking rather disheveled, lips swollen and partially undressed. _He did that_. His eyes fell on his chest.

 _What_?

                Sherlock caught his gaze and quickly held his shirt back together, pulling his knees up again.

                “Sherlock, what’s on—Was that a scar?” John’s voice peaked with disbelief. He’d seen Sherlock shirtless before, being flatmates with him, and he’d never seen anything like that.

                “It’s nothing,” Sherlock mumbled. His eyes flickered to the door and window. _Escape routes_.

                “You had a _scar_ running from your shoulder through the middle of your bloody chest,” John raised his voice. “I just saw it, now let me see it again.”

                “You just saw it, why would you want to see it again?”

                John narrowed his eyes. “I’m a doctor, just let me examine it.”

                “I’ve already been treated, _doctor_ ,” Sherlock said sharply.

                “I don’t care. Who knows how many rubbish doctors there are? _Let me see it_.”

                “No!” Sherlock shouted, pulling his legs closer. “It makes me look… weak,” he added softly.

                John sucked in a small handful of air. _Why do his eyes always look so sad now_? “It isn’t weak,” John argued. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Please,” he asked his wordless question again.

                It wasn’t immediate, but Sherlock eventually lowered his legs. He looked down at himself in apparent self-loathing. But it was for John. If anyone else on the planet had asked, he would never had made himself look so weak. But this was John. He would count each of the stars for John. They shined for him anyways. He shrugged his shirt off.

                John gasped softly and moved closer, running his fingers over his chest. There wasn’t one, there were _more_. The largest seemed to divide his chest diagonally, fewer other incisions scattered around and two gunshot wounds—both flesh wounds. There were burn scars on his sides. One part of his stitches were ripped at the very top, near his shoulder. John narrowed his eyes.

                “You said ‘almost’,” John said softly.

_He did that._

                 “You were angry, John,” Sherlock said tiredly. “You had every right to be.”

                “I didn’t have the right to hurt you like this,” John sounded angry. Was it at Sherlock or at himself, Sherlock couldn’t tell.

                “You had no qualms with a bloody nose, but suddenly you see me so weak and you pity me. I don’t _care_ if you kicked me when I was down. I deserved it.”

                When put like that, it only made John feel worse.

                “Why did you do all of this?” John ran his thumb over the ripped stitch.

                Sherlock didn’t answer at first. If it hadn’t been proven with Adler, it was definitely proven after The Fall. Caring is definitely a disadvantage. _Then how could it feel so right?_

                “As cliché as it sounds,” Sherlock said quietly, “It was for you.”

                John made a face. “How could this all be for me?!” he yelled. What had he ever done to Sherlock to make _this_ happen?

                Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He tried John’s tactic.

                “Do you remember when I was on the rooftop?”

                Unlike Sherlock, John responded with a nod.

                “Do you remember how Moriarty was up there, too?”

                John’s gaze snapped up. “What?”

                “Do you remember how he used the only weakness I ever had, or will have for that matter, against me?”

                John was quiet.

                “He threatened to kill you if I didn’t jump,” Sherlock swallowed. “You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.  If I made contact, he may have killed you. I couldn’t risk it.”

                Sherlock paused again, but John knew he wasn’t finished after a moment, Sherlock took in a shuddering breath.

                “I was meant to spend the rest of my life away,” he admitted. “I was supposed to stay dead… You would have moved on and had a happy life some way or another, which I realize now is with Mary,” Sherlock paused again. “ _But I got selfish_.”

                A longer pause, as if Sherlock was debating whether or not to say the words.

                “I wanted you. A life with you. So I had to do the only thing I could to insure you were going to be safe and that I could see you again. I had to destroy Moriarty’s network,” he gave a short, humorless laugh. “And that’s how all this happened.”

                “Sherlock…” John started, but Sherlock wasn’t finished.

                “There was only you that ever stopped me from giving up. Each time… I felt like screaming… I thought of you. And somehow it made the pain less.”

                Sherlock felt John’s arms holding him, tighter than before. His breath tickled his neck like flowers brushing against his skin.

                “You blasted idiot,” John choked on the words, “How could you…” the words soon found their graves.

                Sherlock answered simply again: “ _You_.”


	4. Chapter 4

                They fell into comfortable silence, somehow making a throne of the bathroom floor. John laid his head on Sherlock’s bare shoulder and the latter seemed to have no problem with this. John’s hands traced lovingly over Sherlock’s chest. _I’m sorry_ , the fingers kissed, _as long as I’m alive, you’ll never go through this again._

                Time passed slowly, though neither of them paid any attention to the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. It only reminded them that some time they would have to let go, and they never wanted that to happen. They knew they would have to be forced to make some decisions. They knew they would be forced to face feelings that neither of them had seen before. But right then, _it was all so simple_. It was pure and innocent love that they had found themselves stuck in… but neither of them regretted it.

                They fell deep and they fell hard, all at once, and it all started with an idea, two hearts, and a text that was never meant to be sent. _Or was it? Fate worked in strange ways_.

                Sherlock felt John’s hands in his hair. “I’ve always wanted to touch your hair,” John admitted softly so not to break the thin protection shield from them and the rest of the world. “It’d always looked soft.”

                “Is it?” Sherlock asked. He was sure he’d never seen more beautiful eyes.

                John’s smile made Sherlock’s heart flutter in its cage. He nodded and leaned up and kissed his temple. “I love you,” he whispered breathlessly, “Oh God do I love you.”  
                Sherlock’s face heated up which made John laugh. “I-I suppose the feeling is returned,” he stammered awkwardly.

                John’s warm hand rubbed over Sherlock’s shoulder. “You don’t say that. You say ‘I love you, too, John,’” he leaned closer, his eyes prodding in anticipation.

                “Doesn’t what I said have virtually the same meaning?”

                “Just say it!” John glared but there was no hardness.

                Sherlock gave a childish sigh. “I love you, too, John.”

                “Say it like you mean it,” John started to lean closer and closer.

                “I- I love- John you’re too— Mmph!”

                John kissed Sherlock again, relishing the warmth that radiated off his cheeks. He made Sherlock blush. He made _Sherlock_ blush. _He_ made Sherlock _blush_. No matter how you said it, it still sounded like a lie. But it wasn’t.

                Sherlock kissed back tentatively, still learning. Their eyes were shut and the kiss was slow. In just the smallest break, Sherlock pulled away just long enough to say _I love you, too, John_ , in a voice so deep and breathless I sent a shudder down John’s back.

                “Did that suffice?” Sherlock’s eyes opened.

                John blinked dumbly before laughing.

                Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, trying again, “I love you, too, John,” he repeated. “How about that time?” which only made John laugh harder. Sherlock opened his mouth again to try once more but John stopped him with a hand firmly in the center of his chest.

                “It was fine the first time,” John said in a fit of giggles. He was sure he was the only one that ever laughed with Sherlock Holmes, and he treasured such a fact.

                “Well you could have _told_ me!” Sherlock huffed. “I would have taken a better note,” he mumbled afterwards.

                John raised his eyebrows. “You take _notes_?”

                “Of course,” Sherlock seemed appalled by the idea he _wouldn’t_ take notes.

                “What would you need notes for?”

                Then he got the you’re-an-idiot-Anderson look.

                “Well I have to know what you like,” Sherlock pointed out. “How else would I know if I didn’t take note of how you respond to my actions?”

                John sat back with a silly grin. “Fine then, what do I like, _professor_?”

                Now, _this_ was Sherlock’s area.

                “You respond rather well when I blush for whatever reason. Maybe you find it cute. Maybe you’re the only one who’s probably seen me like that. You like it when my voice gets lower and when my hand is _here_ ,” touched the nape of John’s neck, seeing his pupils blatantly dilate. “You seem to touch my skin a lot, which probably implies you’d like me to do the same. Though you enjoy danger, you tend to like times to calm down. The mix is what turns you on. “

                Sherlock’s eyes scanned down John’s body again, taking any body language that he may have been off on a deduction or two.

                John gave an impressed huff of air. “Is _everything_ science to you?”

                “Well naturally there are various types of sciences, each part of the world fitting into one of the categories, so obviously everything is science to _everybody_ , they only choose to ignore it. This would be more on the chemistry side, your body’s chemical reaction to each of the things I—“

                “All right, all right!” John interrupted, knowing if he didn’t stop Sherlock soon he’d end up reciting the periodic table.

                Their voices died down again after that. Neither had anything to say and neither of them felt the need to fill the air with mindless chatter (which was another thing Sherlock loved about John).  After a while though, John found his voice again.

                “As much fun as this is, couldn’t we just go to the couch to cuddle? The floor’s kind of uncomfortable.”

                “I don’t cuddle.”

                “You do. We are. Right now.”

                “I’m sitting here. You’re laying on me.”

                “ _While_ cuddling.”

                Sherlock sent him a halfhearted glare and John couldn’t help but smile. He tugged his arm as he stood up, bringing Sherlock with him. Sherlock stumbled as he stood, following John as he hopped into Sherlock’s chair and pulled his wrist as to say “hop in, the water’s fine!”

                “It doesn’t seem like there’s be room for—“  
                “Get _on_!”

                John pulled Sherlock on top of him, wanting to laugh as he saw Sherlock’s face heat up again. Sherlock’s hands were by John’s shoulders and he was propped up over him. He knew he was new to this type of thing, but did two people honestly squeeze into a spot made for one just to “cuddle”? It seemed illogical and uncomfortable.

                John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, making his arms give out and he fell onto him. John smiled and wriggled until they both fit comfortably, Sherlock’s face by his shoulder and hid legs curled in on top of John’s chest. John’s legs hung off the edge of the chair.

                “Can I at least put a shirt back on?” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to hide his embarrassment.

                “No,” John ran his hands down Sherlock’s bare back with a small smile. He’d never seen Sherlock act so _human_.

                Sherlock gave a childish pout. “It isn’t fair _you_ get to have a shirt on,” he reasoned.

                “Want me to take it off?” he turned his head to face Sherlock and his hands moved to the top of his shirt.

                “No, I didn’t mean that!” Sherlock’s face turned even redder much to John’s enjoyment and his hand pushed John’s away from his shirt.

                John couldn’t help laughing this time.

                “I meant you have a shirt on so I should, too! You know I meant that!” Sherlock glared at him.

                John laughed harder, only making Sherlock’s glare intensify.

                “You’re so cute,” John laughed and kissed him again.

                “I’m _not_ _cute_!” Sherlock glared at him again, which only looked silly when he was blushing.

                “You are,” John’s smile softened and the kiss became sweeter.

                Sherlock’s anger (so to speak) faded down and he returned the kiss. He never found the point of kissing until that day. He’d kissed people before purely as experiment to find out why humans seemed to be obsessed with it, but it seemed pointless. It was gross if anything. Why would you want someone else’s spit in your mouth? _And then Sherlock kissed John_.

                “I’m a man. I can’t be cute,” Sherlock argued again in a small, mumbling voice.

                John only shook his head. “You’re adorable when you try to pretend you don’t like to cuddle or when you blush. Or when you’re clingy like last night. Your eyes light up when you realize something. It’s a Sherlock kind of cute.”

                “John,” Sherlock said softly. “What’s going to happen now?”

                John blinked in surprise. Where had that come from? “What do you mean?”

                “You’re engaged,” Sherlock’s voice was softer, but being so closer to John’s ear, he was heard.

                The words stopped John’s heart. It was amazing how much he forgot since that morning. _Forgot or simply ignored?_

                “John?” Sherlock asked when John didn’t respond.

                “I don’t know.”

                Sherlock got up enough to look at John’s eyes. To judge his body correctly. “I’m not going to let you cheat on your soon-to-be-wife,” he said sternly, getting off him.

                John felt so alone when Sherlock got off.

                “Sherlock I—“

                “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice laced with thin anger. “You can’t play both of us. You’re engaged to _her_. Forget everything that happened today and last night. “

                John felt a wave of fear shower over him. He didn’t want all of this to end. He’d never felt so alive as he had that day.

                Sherlock stalked back to his room and closed the door, curling up on the bed again. It felt so empty. He rolled to the side John was on last night, taking a deep breath.

                “ _Caring is not an advantage_ ,” he chanted to himself as he willed himself to ignore the presence just outside his door, fist set ready to knock.

                He didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved when he heard John leave.

~~*~~

                It was infuriating that it was raining outside just as John had stepped from the flat. It was so cliché. Yes, he felt stuck in a drama. He felt like shouting at the sky, but knew it would only attract attention at best. He huffed, crossing his arms and starting to wander. He didn’t want to go home and break the reality of what had happened with Sherlock or be reminded that he had just spend the day cheating on his fiancé.

                His life felt so screwed up due to Sherlock Holmes. _Screwed up or perfected_? Asked some voice behind the hairs of his ears, and had it been anything other than a fabrication, John would have told them to piss off. But that was just the thing: as much as John wanted to tell the world to fuck off and let him be, Sherlock Holmes had perfected John, and to ignore this was to ignore the rain pelting the top of his head.

                _He had no interest in a relationship_ , Sherlock had told him, _He was married to his work_.

 _You have no chance!_ Screamed the wind and he cursed at the pavement.

Sherlock’s death after The Fall was unbearable, and perhaps, that was when John realized the depth of their relationship all too late. He was working past it slowly, and then he found Mary. The only person that could stop the loneliness from gnawing away his insides. The only thing other than Sherlock that made him stable.

He loved Mary, he did. _But Sherlock was different_.

                Love with Mary was the kind where they would talk for days. Look into each other’s eyes and tell them a story just to see the spark of curiosity grow larger and larger as the story reached its end. Love with Mary was innocent and sweet, like eating chocolate for the rest of your life. It felt like falling from a cloud onto flowers.

                Sherlock was passion. Hard, cold and deep _passion_. The kind where when their lips met it was a battle and they would fight to the death. One touch was never enough. They had to have _more_. There was _danger_. Sherlock held a gun to his temple and cocked the gun. John bit the barrel and spit the bullet back at him with a snarl and pushed him to the bed with Sherlock’s hair running away in fear. When the kissed there would not be a spark, there would be _fire_. When their eyes met there would not be lightening there would be a terrifying shock that shook his bones and electrified his insides until he _screamed_.

                And as insane as he is, John needed passion. Chaste kisses weren’t enough. He needed to have the passion that Sherlock gave him and he _needed_ Sherlock’s cool gazes that pierced through his skin with a thick needle. Sherlock was a drug and John was intoxicated.

                John was drenched and shivering when he realized it was idiotic to stay out for much longer lest he catch a cold. He hailed a cab, muttered an address to the driver and slumped down in the seat, trying to collect his mind from the pieces on the ground.

~~*~~

                Just as the lock clicked, the door opened and a voice resonated from inside.

                “I woke up alone today,” and what a feeble voice it was.

                John felt his heart heavy in his chest. He felt his world being torn in different directions, and though he knew which side he wanted to jump to safety to, he couldn’t bear to leave the other side behind.

                “Sorry,” John apologized dumbly in a voice as blank as any arsenal he may have occupied before.

                He heard Mary laugh humorlessly from the bed and vaguely wondered if she got up at any time that afternoon.

                “You were with Sherlock,” it wasn’t a question or an accusation.

                Without any reason to lie, John answered still from the doorframe. “Yes.”

                It was dim in the flat, but he could see Mary’s lips twitch into a knowing smile. For a moment they only stood there, both in an unsaid agreement, and both tired of trying to make a broken clock tell the correct time.

                Their breathing sounded like thunder in the silent apartment and even the sun had shied away behind the horizon. Neither of them bothered to flicker a light on; perhaps they were better left in the dark. Just as John felt Mary may start speaking again, he was rewarded with silence.

                The longer the pair went in the dark silence, the longer they wished they could sprout wings and fly in the opposite directed, fated never to meet again. But not really. That would be a cruel fate to erase existence. Instead, John felt compelled to speak.

                “I don’t want to get married,” he found the words sinfully escaping himself before he could stop them. He didn’t want to stop them.

                Mary replied. “I know,” is what she said, “I could tell.”

                John laughed humorlessly, roughly and dripping with fatigue. “Is it really that obvious?”

                “I moved my things to a friend’s flat this afternoon.”

                John looked up suddenly.

                “I could tell, I told you. When you look at Sherlock, it’s different than with me. When you talk about him, you just look happier,” Mary admitted, and then she was standing. “I’m not going to marry someone who doesn’t love me.”

                Mary’s silhouette grew larger and soon she was next to him by the door. Her face was pinched into a pained smile as if she didn’t truly want this to happen, but there wasn’t much say she had in it. It wasn’t her fault John wasn’t happy with her.

                “It isn’t fair,” she said softly, “It isn’t fair to me if you go on with our life pretending to be in love. I don’t want something Prince Charming, but I want someone to love me.”

                And just as he blinked she was already gone down the hall, her engagement ring left in his palm.

                John stood by the door, still collecting his thoughts. In a single day he went from happily— _was it true happiness?_ Now he asks himself— to single and in love with his best friend. He walked into the flat, feeling heavier than he had in ages. The door shut loudly. He trudged in and fell onto the bed. There was only one thing he wanted, and that was Sherlock. He wanted to feel his long arms around his neck and have his curls tickle his nose. He wanted last night.

                He took out his mobile, his fingers moving as slow as dripping cough syrup.

**I want to kiss you again. A bit not good? –JW**

His fingers stopped moving again and he sighed. Sherlock probably just wanted to be left alone.

**Do you wish to send this message?**

**[Unsent]**

                Sherlock clutched his sheets tightly. He wanted anything but to be alone.

                But John was with Mary now. He couldn’t be selfish again and ask for him to come back over. He couldn’t do that to John Watson, he couldn’t suck at him like a leech and feed off of his unhappiness. He was no parasite.

                Nonetheless his mobile found itself between his fingers.

                **I’m lonely –SH**

                Without realizing it, the message was sent.

                John’s heart jumped when his mobile vibrated and he opened the text quickly. He found himself smiling. The next text came quickly.

                **Ignore that. I’m not in my right mind –SH**

**You’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re always in your right mind. –JW**

                **Not around you, Doctor Watson. –SH**

**I’m lonely, too. –JW**

Sherlock blinked at his phone in confusion, turning over in his bed that suddenly felt less cold but still chilling without a second body.

                **Mary? –SH**

The reply took a total of three minutes, four seconds, and seventeen milliseconds.

**No longer in the picture.—JW**

                The next one was seconds later.

**Mind if I come over again? –JW**

                Sherlock smiled to himself, not having the mind to feel silly about it. He wanted to laugh but that seemed a bit much.

                **Not at all.—SH**

~~*~~

                There wasn’t an air of awkwardness as the door to 221b opened. Sherlock smiled warmly, unable to control himself, and there wasn’t much reason to as John replied with an embrace. Sherlock only realized how much he’d missed him until then. He had never felt more protected.

                John was pulled inside the flat and the door closed behind him, he was pressed against it. They were so closer they were practically on fire— _just a centimeter closer. Kiss me._ But Sherlock didn’t move any closer.

                “What did you mean?” Sherlock asked softly, “When you said ‘no longer in the picture’?”

                John looked down momentarily, his hand finding his pocket. He showed him a small ring, jewel incrusted and vibrant. There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind it was Mary’s engagement ring. He looked at John in disbelief.

                “Why—“

                “You said it yourself,” John interrupted. “I can’t play both of you— not that I ever meant to, by the way.”

                “But I meant… I assumed you would go back to Mary.”

                Something changed in John’s eyes. “You mean… You don’t…”

                “Don’t be daft of course I do,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John laughed in relief. “I just don’t understand.”

                Sherlock let John free (to John’s disappointment) and paced to the other side of the room, his hands together in front of his face. His _we-have-a-puzzle-to-solve_ face. He continued pacing, his eyes flickering around and he occasionally mumbled something to himself. Still, nothing came to mind, and it was driving him mad. John was the puzzle he never could solve.

                Eventually Sherlock gave up with a frustrated shout.

                “I don’t get it!” he shouted abruptly. “A life with Mary would have so many more positive aspects! You would have a wife, possible—no, definite— biological children. It’s sophisticated and easy and it’s so much safer than trying to stay alive and chasing criminals with me! You’ve always been after that kind of _domestic_ life, and now that you finally have it, you throw it all away _for what_?”

                John was stunned by Sherlock’s speech. He’d never thought about anything like that. But nothing would really be worth it if every time he looked at Sherlock it would be of desire.

                John walked to the kitchen and Sherlock stared after him in bemusement.

                “No comment? After all that? Really, John?”

                “Is this water?” John asked, lifting a glass of clear liquid. “No acids or experiments in it?”

                “W-Well, not exactly. I was going to—“

                Sherlock was cut off as John poured the glass onto the tile floor between them. He jumped backwards in alarm, his mind racing in complete and utter confusion.

                “What was that for? You know—“

                “That’s all any of that is,” John said as he looked at the small puddle between them. “Mary and everything else you mentioned, that’s all I would have ever gotten from it. I want _you_ , Sherlock,” John’s shoes splashed softly in the water as he stepped through to hold Sherlock’s cheeks. They started to redden and John smiled. “ _You_ , Sherlock, can give me an entire _ocean_.”

                Sherlock leaned down and kissed John gingerly, slowly, deliberately. It was well received and John’s hands found Sherlock’s hair. They pulled at his curls and Sherlock kissed harder in retaliation. John gasped for breath and Sherlock pushed him against the wall behind him. Sherlock pulled away slowly, his pupils blown wide.

                John panted heavily, trying to tug him back down. “What?” he huffed in annoyance.

                “You might need to throw those shoes out.”

                John’s eye narrowed in a dull glare and he looked down at his black shoes that now had white splotches over them.

                “You said it didn’t have any experiments in it!”

                “I said ‘not _exactly’_. I hadn’t completed it yet.”

                John’s glare hardened and Sherlock laughed at him, pulling his wrists closer and kissing him again. “I’ll buy you new shoes,” he promised.

                “Being nice and sweet are we?” John raised a brow.

                Sherlock chuckled and leaned his head on John’s shoulder. It was a bit of a ways down, but it was still comfortable. “You bring out the best in me, John,” he admitted and kissed his neck softly. His eyes flashed up at him darkly and his teeth grazed the skin as he left a red mark.

                “Or was it the worst?”

                John felt a shudder rack down his body and he knew Sherlock felt it, too, since he smirked and found a new patch of skin to mark.

                “Definitely the worst,” he gasped.


End file.
